Manosphere IV: Fixing Chicks

The Manosphere had become a clusterfuck. Nothing was working and no one was watching. The Philosopher had blown out in weight even further and Camp Gramps continued to say stupid shit on social media. The President was not happy. His pyramid scheme was on shaky ground and he was willing to do anything to save it. “I’m telling you, just try it,” said Camp Gramps to the Philosopher.

“What are you two cunts talking about?” said the President.

“Dinner and dancing,” said Camp Gramps.

“I’m not going to try it, chief,” said the Philosopher.

“That’s it! Twenty-nine hour social media ban for you Gramps!” said the President.

“Oh! Come on now, boss. That’s not fair,” said Camp Gramps.

“Shut the fuck and rub my goddamn shoulders. I have some thinking to do,” said the President.

“Well, if you’re going to do that, I’ll be leaving,” said the Philosopher as he left the Presidential Suite. The President grunted and groaned like a wounded animal as Camp Gramps massaged the knots in his shoulders. “Chief, you’re so tense. Tell Gramps what’s wrong,” said Camp Gramps.

“EVERYTHING IS FUCKED!” said the President.

“Now, now chief. You can fix this. You are the President,” said Camp Gramps.

“This save the West bullshit isn’t working. Everyone knows we can’t go back to how it was. That fucking Canadian guy is right when he says we should be focusing on adapting. Or was it the British guy? Damn, we should have kept him,” said the President.

“I believe Britain and Canada are the same place. Anyway, I believe he left, chief.”

“His message is bad for business anyway.”

“You’ll think of something. You’re a hero,” said Camp Gramps and then they were silent for exactly three minutes and nineteen seconds. Then, with the ferocity of a retard that had just been told it was no longer his birthday and that today was just Wednesday, the President lept to his feet. “I’ve got it Gramps! I’m going to fix women!” said the President, massage oil running down his back and closing in on his arse crack like a runaway stage coach made of lava.

“Damn right you will,” said Camp Gramps.

“I’m going to see Uncle Bob,” said the President and left the room completely naked. Camp Gramps sighed.

Uncle Bob was loading two black garbage bags into the back of a van when the President turned up. “Hey Prezalicious! What’s up?’ Said Uncle Bob.

“What the fuck are you doing?” said the President.

“Oh, this? Someone could not handle the hard fucking last night,’ said Uncle Bob and motioned the President to go inside. On the couch there were three sex dolls. One was missing a head, another an arm and the third one had no legs. The President quickly scanned the room for the missing appendages but couldn’t see jack shit. “What can I do for you?’ said Uncle Bob.

“I want to fix women,’ said the President.

“Don’t we all?” said Uncle Bob.

“No, I mean fix them. I think I can do it.”

“Well, you are the President.”

“I need a speech about a new conference we’re going to do. Write it.”

“Sure thing. What should it say? Stop being whores?”

“No. I mean yes. Fuck, just put some tradcon shit in there. They’re the ones stupid enough to eat this shit up,” said the President and Uncle Bob punched away at the keyboard with half the determination he used when fucking a sex doll. After he had finished, the President didn’t even read it once. They merely touched tongues and without uttering a single word, the President went back to Headquarters.

Camp Gramps was excited. He was going to be headlining a team of speakers for the conference that would save the West and fix women at the same time. “This is going to be huge, my President” said Camp Gramps.

“You’ve stuck by me through thick and thin, Gramps. You deserve it,’ said the President.

“It’s about time the women folk heard about the benefits of dinner and dancing,’ said Camp Gramps.

‘OH FUCK ME DEAD GRAMPS!’ Said the President.

“Chief, this is rather sudden.”

“No, dickhead. Do not mention that fucking dinner and dancing shit to me ever again or will banish you from the sphere. Talk to the attendees about all that other gay shit you crap on about. Do not mention dinner and dancing.’

“Hurtful, but fair,’ said Camp Gramps.

“We’re going to dominate this, Gramps. The people want prescriptions and we will provide them. Once we fix chicks, I mean once I fix chicks, the West will be saved.”

“I believe in you,” said Camp Gramps and he reached for the lavender oil as the President removed his shirt. All this thinking had tensed up his back again. “Don’t touch my pecs,” said the President and Camp Gramps started working on those knots like an indentured servant in a corn field.

Word got out that the Manosphere was getting together to fix women because the President had spammed social media with the location and details of this once in a lifetime lecture series. Uncle Bob’s speech was uploaded to the main YouTube channel and the link had been thoroughly dispersed throughout the internet like cheap sex at spring break. The line up had been secured and it was the best all male lineup that any woman could be lucky enough to be lectured by. Ticket sales had been slow and the President was monitoring the YouTube channels of all those fucking guys he had vanquished in case they said anything slightly negative about his latest event. He still continued, however, to attack that fucking guy and the Canadian and a few others, including the Body Language Expert who had called him a “sperg”. That shit made him seethe with the rage of a thousand Autists. Camp Gramps was doing wall push-ups while reciting his presentation. “Unstuck..dinner..ah fuck..dance..oh shit…FLOWERS!” said Camp Gramps.

“Don’t fuck this up, Gramps. Or you will go back to interviewing like a chick,’ said the President.

“You can count on me,” said Camp Gramps and he did the pistol thing only fuckwits do with their fingers when they think they are winning.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Sorry, chief,” said Camp Gramps and continued reciting his presentation in the whispered tones of an insane asylum regular. The President flexed in the mirror.

The only women who turned up to the conference were the wives and girlfriends of the misguided men who believed the President actually knew what he was talking about. All the presenters where initially over the moon at the agreeable nature of the audience, especially Camp Gramps who moon-walked off the stage at the conclusion of his presentation, only to reappear thirteen seconds later to rip his t-shirt off and throw it into the crowd. Their vacant smiles turned to confusion and Camp Gramps was dragged off the stage by the Philosopher. “Gramps, that was fucked,” said the Philosopher.

‘WOOOOOOO DINNER AND DANCING!” said Camp Gramps and the Philosopher put his hand over Camp Gramps’s mouth so that the President did not hear those three dreaded words.

The next day, the President was going over the financials with Uncle Bob on the speakerphone. ‘I told you this would not work,” said Uncle Bob.

“No you fucking didn’t. You sex doll serial killer,’ said the President.

“Be very careful, Preztard,” said Uncle Bob.

“Get fucked, Bob,” said the President and he hung up. He then picked up his phone and tweeted, “Uncle Bob is an enemy of the Manosphere,” and threw his phone against the wall. It did not smash into a million pieces. In fact it did not smash at all. That would require more force. “Chief, you look tense. Time for a back rub?’ said Camp Gramps as he walked into the Presidential Suite.

“Fuck off,’ said the President.

“You got it, chief. Here to serve,” said Camp Gramps and he left. The President sat there staring at the ceiling fan that spun around and around like all the useless thoughts in his mind about how he could save the Manosphere from it’s imminent demise. Those were words he could not bring himself to say. His phone made a noise. He picked it up off the ground and opened the social media app. Uncle Bob had tweeted out,”the President is a fraud,” and now all his two hundred and thirteen followers thought that the President, the closest thing the world had to the second coming of Jesus was a fraud. He replied, ‘Fuck you, Uncle Bob,” and threw his phone against the wall again. After getting up and retreiving his phone, he then declared war on Uncle Bob via the same social media app and offered a reward for his capture, but was forced to remove the post when the police contacted him. It didn’t matter though, it was still war and Uncle Bob was fucked.

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